


Transmutation

by versaphile



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Genderbending, M/M, Mild D/s, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They give each other what they need, even when it feels like taking. </p><p>Vague post-End of Time AU. No spoilers, but character development informed by the eps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transmutation

The second time they try this, they use the laser. The chameleon arch did its job too well, and what was the fun in that? What they needed was a transformation of the body, not the mind. It hurt, of course. Not that pain was something they were trying to avoid, but even the Doctor's self-punishment had its limits. It would be a shame if the Doctor changed his mind at the last minute. The Master made sure to tie him down very, _very_ well. 

The screwdriver is hot in his hand, almost overheated. Precision work takes time, takes power. And with the Doctor at his mercy, he is always precise. Always patient, to savour the triumph. It almost bereaves him to stop, but greater pleasures await. He gives one last tweak, watches the Doctor's body arch and strain one last time, and flicks the switch. The high whine stops with a sudden absence, and the Master drops the screwdriver into his jacket pocket to cool. He might not need it for some time, depending on the results.

The Master removes the gag, and tenderly extracts the rubber bit that kept the Doctor from biting off his own tongue. The Doctor is slumped on the medical chair, pale and damp with sweat. The Master runs his hand down in an admiring caress.

"Beautiful work, if I say so myself," he says, and grins with delight. 

The Doctor stirs, glazed eyes slowly focusing on the Master's face. "Did it...?" 

"Oh, _yes_." The Master reaches for the chest strap, intending to free the Doctor, to show off his hard work, but he stops. Moves his hand lower, past the soft swell of breasts, past the newly curving hips. Down, down, to the virgin cunt between the Doctor's legs. He wets one finger and slides it into his-- no, _her_ folds, finds them warm and slightly slick. Finds her clit, small and sleeping, and rubs it awake. The Doctor moans, stirs against the bindings, but they hold her tight.

Neither speaks. They don't need any words. There is only the Doctor's ragged breathing, the slick sound of the Doctor's cunt as it wets. The Master dips his fingers inside, draws her slickness out to smear it; rubs the soft, supple folds until they are hot and swollen against his palm. The Master watches, feasts upon the sight of the Doctor's transformed body: a young woman, her hearts beating so fast. She flushes and squirms, her nipples harden, her lips darken. As her arousal rises, her breathing comes in little gasps, her hips stutter against the heavy bindings. She at her very first climax, and it is at the Master's hand, by his will, and it is so, so sweet.

The Master leans close as she begins to shudder, to give high, shocked cries. There is a rush of scent, rich and sweet, and he breathes it in deeply, sighs it out. When his fingers no longer draw out her quivering, he pulls his hand free, smells and tastes the wetness on it. Touches the Doctor's reddened cheek, and leaves slick fingerprints as he kisses her new, welcoming lips.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yes."

He frees her, and her first steps are wobbly enough that he must catch her, help her. The Doctor's frame is smaller as a woman, and she is slightly shorter than him now. She is still slim, but soft where she was bony, curved where she was gangly. Her face is clearly feminine, yet the eyes are the same, the full bottom lip, the slightly Roman nose. The same unruly hair, the same ears. The same wry, bemused smile.

"You can let go now," the Doctor says. Her voice is higher.

The Master smirks, and lewdly gropes her breast. It fits perfectly into his hand. The Doctor half-heartedly slaps his hand away, and looks down at herself.

"Huh. Thought they'd be bigger," she says, cupping her breasts, curiously tweaking each nipple.

The Master licks his lip. "They're perfect."

"You would say that." The Doctor drops her hands, wobbles again but finds her balance. She runs her hands down herself, learning what the Master has made of her. She touches her throat. "New hormones. Weird." She looks up at him. "Height'll take some getting used to. Did you make me younger?"

"Shaved off a few years," the Master says, and steps close. He likes the way she feels, naked against him. 

The Doctor pouts, and that's the same, too. "Just don't go thinking I'm some helpless young Earth girl."

"Oh, I would never think that," the Master assures her, and kisses her. Rests his hand upon the gentle swell of her belly. The mathematics of transformation flash through his mind, the conversion of flesh and bone and arton. He might misplace the laser screwdriver for a while, if only so he can enjoy all the delicacies before him. He won't have to, if the Doctor wants the same, but he always likes a backup plan. And if she doesn't, well, the Doctor should know better than to trust him with such temptation. 

"I know what you're thinking," the Doctor says, between kisses.

"Mmm?" The Master slides one hand down her back, to fondle her deliciously pert bottom.

The Doctor breaks the kiss. "Yes," she says, looking meaningfully into his eyes. There's a soberness, and an acceptance there, and the Master shivers with a sudden, sharp lust. 

The Doctor made her choice. Her surrender. Oh, _yes_.

They're halfway to the nearest bedroom by the time the Master realizes she's leading him by his tie. Her bottom sways hypnotically with her new hips, and she glances back at him with equal anticipation. The Master can't stop thinking about her cunt, her little virgin cunt, tucked away between her thighs. He can still taste it on his tongue. 

The bedroom is the way they left it, sheets rumpled and covers half-pushed off. The room still smells faintly of sex, of come. The Master touches the bed, and finds the Doctor's wet spot is barely dry. The Master shivers again with the knowledge that mere hours ago, he fucked the Doctor here, fucked his old shape goodbye, gripped his cock and dragged the climax from him. That mere days ago, the Doctor confessed his little fantasy, his little fancy. His wish for the Master to turn him inside-out, to remake him as he pleased, as they pleased.

The straps are still where they left them, and the Doctor straightens one, touches the buckle of the cuff almost shyly. Perhaps it is this body that makes her look shy, as she looks up through her lashes, eyes sparkling. She touches her neck again.

"Does it feel bare?" the Master asks, touching the line of her neck with his fingertips. Tracing his fingers around, and closing his hand around her neck. He holds gently, feeling her pulses against his palm. Feeling her swallow, nod. He kisses her again, intoxicated with each fresh submission.

The Master reaches into his jacket pocket, past the cooling screwdriver, and runs his thumb along the wide leather band. The collar. It makes the Doctor feel safe, helps him let go of all the weight he burdens himself with. Herself. And for the Master... well. The sight of a collared Doctor, a bound Doctor, willing in surrender, is the most beautiful thing there ever was, ever will be, ever might have been.

She keeps her eyes closed as he locks it around her neck for the first time. A touch to the isomorphic plate, and the collar contracts to fit the slimmer size, to hold firm. The Master's insignia rests above the hollow of her throat. She opens her eyes, breathes in, breathes out, and he sees the relief in her, the gladness. He brushes back her wild hair, and kisses her forehead.

He ties her down, spread out upon the bed like a sacrifice. Her eyes are dark and watchful, but without fear. She wants this, needs this, and the Master forgets his scheming, forgets his half-formed plans. He could leave the laser screwdriver in easy reach, and still she would be his. Neither of them needs to run, not anymore. 

He strips quickly, too impatient for any fuss. He crawls over her, cock already high, and tastes her breasts, her taut belly. He is hungry to learn her. He left slack in the bindings on her legs, and when he slaps her leg she raises her knees, makes room for him to settle between her thighs. Her cunt is bare, body denuded from an earlier transformation he worked upon the Doctor, months before, when this began. For a moment he misses the sight of the Doctor's straining cock, his balls bound and swollen, but her cunt is still wet from his fingers, spread and waiting for him, and the Master turns himself to this delight.

His tongue delves, and she cries out, squirms at the strange new sensations. He pins down her hip, and sucks and laps and nips at her vulva, her clit. He fucks her with his tongue, with his fingers; relishes the newness of her flesh. He is unashamed at his possessiveness, his need for her to be his and only his, his need to mark and claim her over and over, as he has so many times before. He will never be sated, not ever, not with a hunger so endless. 

"Enough," the Doctor groans. Her thighs are tight against the Master's head, and he pushes them apart to rise. 

"Never," the Master declares, grinning madly. His chin and cheeks are smeared with her slickness.

"Fuck me," the Doctor commands, pleads, voice thick with need. "Do it."

"Patience," the Master clucks, but crawls up her body, matches their hips. They kiss again, and the Doctor tastes herself, thirsty with the realization of her own taste. Her body is taut beneath him, straining to touch, to claw and grab. But her hands curl into helpless fists, and she groans again in frustration.

The Master smirks in triumph, and touches her face, touches her mind. He can feel how much she wants him, how jumbled up inside she is, confused and certain at the same time. Can see flashes of her thoughts, the sources of her desires: to be lead, to be captured, to surrender all control, and for it not to be safe, not to be certain. The danger, the fear that he will give up too much, let things go to far, but the yearning for it, the _need_. This is how the Master knows the Doctor is his, how he knows his claim is true. And that he is the only one the Doctor would give himself to, the only one. It is love, and it is pain, and it is so true he can feel it in his hearts.

The Master kisses the insignia on the collar, and eases his cock into the Doctor's cunt. Her burble of thoughts quiets with a gasp, clarifies into a single stream of sensation and awe, awe of this strange newness, of this body being stretched and filled. And then the snap of joy, of welcoming, and her thighs urging him on, urging him deeper. Her thoughts rising up into his mind, echoing the Master's name, echoing desire. The Master keeps his hand to her cheek, holds the link, fucking her in slow, long strokes as their senses mingle and blur, as her surrender becomes a capture, and his conquest becomes a yielding.

He is held within her, within her body (his embrace), her thoughts (his thoughts), and he is safe. They are safe, they are one, they are one, they are--

His hand slips, slick with sweat, and the humming connection breaks, and they are two again. The Master blinks the dampness from his eyes, and pushes hard against the aching in his chest. Never enough, never, not for either of them, and he cannot meet the Doctor's eyes as he fucks her with punishing thrusts. Punishment for bliss, for the torment of tasting what he cannot keep. And he does not need to look to know the Doctor feels the same.

He does not reach up to her face again, but instead down to her cunt, her clit. He drags his thumb against it, pinches it, gives their pain a physical shape. But pain is what the Doctor needs, and soon she is fluttering around his cock, clenching and groaning, her muscles straining as she pulls the bindings taut. And then she is soft again, holding him loosely with her thighs, panting and mewling as he finishes, fucking his way to a sharp and angry climax. But his anger is quickly gone, and as he collapses onto her, he frees one wrist, and she holds him, holds him as he trembles.

Neither speaks. They don't need any words. The Doctor frees herself from the bindings and casts them aside. The Doctor drags the blanket from the edge of the bed, and they curl together, sore and tired, and the Master's eyes are wet, the Doctor's calm and clear. The Doctor touches the Master's cheek, and the Master flinches, but it is he who is held. And he feels the warmth of the Doctor's love within him, lets it wrap around him, lets it claim him to his very soul. And he knows no matter what he does to draw the Doctor to him, to claim her as his own, the Doctor has always marked him deeper.

He thanks her, without words, and she kisses him to sleep.


End file.
